Scarecrow's Nightmare
by La Fantasma de la Obra
Summary: Nolan-verse. Post Joker's death. Dr. Jonathan Crane aspires of being the best bad guy in Gotham. What happens when he finds his match in a very bad girl? What if this bad girl was an old patient of his and brings new ideas to the table? VERY developed OC paired with Dr. Crane. Rated M for future horror and romance. In their world, they're the same thing. Give it a shot and review!
1. Prologue- In Your Festering FACE!

A hood. The top of a trench-coat pulled over a head full of theory in order to hide a face that showed nothing but a cold stare or smirk. A hood was rarely used to cover that face, those icy eyes, those piercing features. They were more frequently than not, hidden by a mask of patched burlap. The burlap was too recognizable at his destination. His face was recognizable enough on its own; enough to get a nod from the clown-faced bouncer outside at the bottom of the rusty iron staircase wedged between two condemned buildings.

He nodded back in appreciation before starting up the stairs, then paused for a moment to take it all in; the smell of sulfur and trash, the only light coming from blinking yellow street lamps, and the sound of the lights buzzing and sirens in the distance. Sneering, he slipped inside the rotting, green doors of an abandoned, decrepit joke shop in the equally abandoned, decrepit ArkhamCity. The mothball smell of an antique type shop was better than that of the outside as was the firelight and silence. The silence he found a pitiful attempt at reverence. Past aisle after aisle of broken jack-in-the-boxes and whoopee cushions all drenched in purple and green paint, on the back wall was a mural of the clown king himself. Photos, flowers, letters, broken toys, criminal profiles, and blazing candles sat on the floor beneath it. "Why am I not surprised?" He chuckled to himself, "Dead and still demanding attention…"

Sighing, he continued, "I'm here for closure. You had disappeared before, but it was always some elaborate act. You were quite the exhibitionist…But Harley and the face? While amusingly warped, it wasn't convincing…to me at least, but boy, if she wasn't a nutcase before," He laughed a little. "She's running around with Poison Ivy and Catwoman now. You should be ashamed. She had SO much potential and she threw it all away, abandoned ALL of your teachings to join the girl scouts. So as the shrink I am, I HAVE to ask," He took off his glasses and put the earpiece in his mouth with a look of mock intrigue, "How does that make you feel?"

After a few seconds of a cackle, "I know I would be very VERY disappointed in her now. You see, if I were to choose to tote around a…how do you say it?" He gave an expression of being puzzled, dripping in sarcasm, before dropping his face back, "A skank, I would at LEAST make sure she was useful for something other than the bedroom." He smiled, "Oh! Speaking of backs, I have yours. Or, you know what? Maybe I'm putting a knife in it. You were the best criminal I'd ever seen with the most interesting tactics out there. But, you see, you were a psychopath. I'm a sociopath. There's quite the difference, my late friend. Not to mention the fact that my IQ is far higher than yours without even bringing out my doctorate. Considering the following, I say that I'm MORE than capable of taking your place as the most feared villain in Gotham." He took a moment from his rant to sigh happily, "Did I mention that the Batman retired? Mhmm, last I heard, he left the country entirely. Catwoman came back, but she's not a problem, and I doubt Robin can hold his own. That leaves little old me."

He paced over to the check out and put his briefcase on the counter. "Unfortunately I'm not as good at making friends as you are." Opening the briefcase and waving a little book around, "But that's okay! Because your little skank was dumb enough to let me have your address book and these guys make Falcone look like child's play, and not the fun kind with the doll. That's something else I'll need, but I'll get to that in JUST a minute. Anyway, I'm going to give the streets back to the gangs to get the concerned civilians out and to get on the bad guys' good sides. The goons are nice but uh," His eyes landed on the files under the mural, "They aren't creative enough for my liking, not like your bunch." He squatted down and began stacking files and when he had all of them , he stood back up and dropped them into his briefcase. "These should do. For now, that is. I'll need to expand my operation of course and I intend on reaching out not only to criminals or the insane, but to find those with actual 'super powers.' Who knows? Maybe I can find a girl with abilities aside from being on her back. Then I kill two birds with one stone right? Not ONLY a slut sidekick, but someone who could bring something new and useful to the table, like telekinesis or something. That's what I would want in a woman. Someone useful, untouched, with a pliable mind, and a high IQ would be nice. That way I could talk to someone after I romp while I'm smoking a cigar. Unlike most men, I like a good conversationalist. I'm probably here because I don't have one. No girl. No family. No friends. No competent goons. Sad, right?" He hooked the briefcase back. "I should get going now. I just wanted to stop by and assure you that Gotham won't go unharmed. I'm going to be a better, more planned, more precise villain than you ever dreamed of being. And I'm not letting ANYONE stand in my way. Not. Even. The Batman. Gotham will soon face its most menacing foe. Once again, it will fear the Scarecrow! So I bid you farewell, for the last time." He sighed happily and looked the place over one last time, "Enjoy rotting you sick son of a bitch."

With that, the man in the hood, with the briefcase full of files slipped back out the door from which he entered. He also walked past the giant with the clown face paint without thinking twice. But he did think twice. So he stopped and drew a business card from his coat pocket. "It's been a year. You'll need a new gig soon. Give me a call." He whispered as he returned to the shadows.

Once he was out of sight, the large man studied the business card. Golden, raised lettering in script with a phone number on the bottom. On the other side read two things. SCARECROW was scrawled in blood over the original inscription which was hard to read under the read. He squinted, and made out a name- Dr. Jonathan Crane.


	2. Cabin Fever at It's Finest!

"Knock knock," Called a bored voice from behind the padded door.

"Why do you knock if I can't deny your entry?"

"Because it's polite." There was a buzz as the door opened and the tiny therapist stepped in.

"Pleasantries are irrelevant."

"No they're not, they show a positive attitude and-"

"Listen, Dr. Bern," Finally the patient pushed her chair away from her desk and removed her gaze from the computer screen. "It's not like I'm getting out on good behavior any time soon. Nobody's going to take a-What do they call me?-'an adolescent with anger issues and dangerous capabilities' to an appellate court."

"Perhaps not, but there IS the chance of being released at twenty one IF you've made substantial progress." The therapist was greeted by nothing but the annoyed stare of her patient. She sighed, "Alright Kala, I've been trying to be nice, but it's been a year, so unless you want to rot right where you're sitting right now."

Kala pushed a mass of wavy, chocolate hair behind her ear. "Hmmm, well…I can sit right here for another year and be fine with it. Online college is incredibly convenient when you spend all day in a maximum security cell. I'm going to complete a degree that would take most people four years, in two. Then, WHEN I get out, I can focus on my art. You'll watch the latest horror show, and see my name in the credits for making the zombies and such. Who knows? Maybe I'll study psychology." She smirked at the doctor and crossed her arms in defiance.

"A PhD will do no good for a person with a record as colorful as yours and you couldn't get a job with-"

"I could get a PhD without getting a license to practice you know."

Dr. Bern gritted her teeth. She HATED working with Kala. At one point, Kala was her favorite patient, because studying her mind was intriguing, but her attitude made her almost unbearable. She'd gotten focused on her studies and her artwork, which was constructive, but her side hobby of terrorizing other patients was right the opposite. The aftermath was awful to put back together. Her abilities allow her to project horrific images into the mind of others, creating individualized nightmares to torment the affected individual. It made her lethal as her simulations had the potential to cause heart attacks, strokes, etc., which is why she was placed in maximum security. She was like the Scarecrow without needing the hallucinogenic powder, but SHE hadn't killed anyone, yet. Getting out would give her the chance. It was something she daydreamed about frequently. She would track down someone who deserved to die like a corrupt politician or cheating husband and do something so horrific, the officers called to the scene would need their own therapists afterwards. She thought about making paintings out of blood and she frequently drew weapons and torture devices that would make Jigsaw proud. Dr. Bern never saw any of those of course. Kala was smart enough to watch what she said and she knew more about psychology than she let on, allowing her to play mental chess with the people around her. And with an IQ as high as hers, it was no surprise how frequently she won. "Why didn't you come to group therapy today?"

"A) That would defeat the purpose of me being in maximum security. B) I don't play well with others, especially not those who spend the day rocking back and forth singing to themselves in corners. I thought Arkham was supposed to be for the CRIMINALLY insane, not the random crazies."

"Thankfully, we're running low on criminally insane."

"That's ironic."

"How so?"

"I'm running low on patience. And C) It would've wasted my time that I could've spent studying, or drawing, or what not. That wasting of my time? That's what you're doing right now. So if you'd excuse me, I'd appreciate it, Janet." Kala grinned mockingly.

The petite woman cleared her throat and tucked her clipboard under her arm, "I'll be back."

"That's unfortunate. But don't worry, I'm not going anywhere." Once the door was shut, Kala jumped from her seat and yelled in frustration, pounding the wall. And, after a moment, she calmed down and flopped onto her bed, defeated. "Cabin fever at it's finest!" She groaned. Trying to control her breathing to prevent a panic attack induced, frightful hallucination, she studied the white ceiling for what seemed like the millionth time. The white ceiling bled into the padded white walls which in turn bled into the white tile floor. She sighed and stretched her arm back to reach under her pillow, from which she produced a studded, purple, leather diary with a black ball point pen. Equipped, she began writing:

_It's a sad day when the walls close in on someone who's NOT claustrophobic. I'd KILL for a change in scenery…Hell, I'd kill for a piece of cheesecake, or some velvety curtains, or just for the thrill. This has to be the crazy house because the crazies are the only people that can tolerate the monotony. I wish there was at least ONE entertaining psycho in the bunch! Like the Joker maybe! Is it bad to idolize a dead, psycho, serial killer, clown? To be honest, HIS crazy was a fun kind of dangerous that I find increasingly enticing. At this point, I'd probably find ANY man between sixteen and forty with something interesting to say enticing. Maybe we'll get a new stud-ly intern with a wild side. That would be nice. Especially someone who would admire my twisted sense of humor and strong stomach and goth look and above all else, my art. Someone who could take me seriously because I'm more mature than the average 19 year old. Someone who would be just as useful to me as I would be to them._


	3. Sweet Dreams

**Creak.** The iron bed rocked as she jerked. **Creak.** Finally she jolted upright, waking herself with a gasp. She breathed heavily for a moment, and ran a shaky hand through her hair, damp with sweat. _What is this?_ Her heart raced and she struggled to calm herself. _Cool it. I took my medicine. I shouldn't be having an attack. Breathe. _She held her knees to her chest for a moment, facing the door, and, finally, unable to calm down, stood.

Wobbling towards the door, she strained to call out for someone to bring her another dose. Not a sound came out but labored breathing and a squeak. _My God. _A fog of dizziness washed over her, sending her stumbling to hold herself against the door. She pulled upwards to put her face in the window as an SOS, but she saw no guard. What she was the reflection on a burlap mask moving towards her from behind. Had she been able, she'd have woken the guards with a scream. Instead, she gasped and spun around in time to be slammed against the door by the masked figure, and feel the prick of a needle into her throat. With a twitch, she began loosing her footing and sliding down the door, and before her consciousness fled, she caught a glimpse of the cold eyes of her attacker.

**Creak.** Kala rolled onto her side an opened her eyes. Groaning, her dizziness came back full force, bringing with it a throbbing headache and nausea. _The hell?_ Then she remembered the eyes, and clips came back to mind. The syringe in her neck, being tossed back onto her bed, feeling helpless, being physically paralyzed. She shut her eyes and tried to piece together what she could. **The masked figure loomed over her, pacing almost, scanning her with his eyes in a mechanical fashion. The way he looked at her, his breathing. She laid limp on the bed and followed him with only her eyes as he rummaged through her papers, drawings, and written work which all got stuffed into his brief case. **_Bastard drugged me. But how? _

"Heeehhh," She croaked, then swallowed hard in defeat. _Screw it. _Sighing, she let her gaze fall on the ground, which is where she spotted her gown. **His hands went under the fabric and part of her wanted to reach up and snap his neck. The other part of her arched at his hands as the white material came up and over her head, into the floor. **That's where her mind cut her off. No more remembering, probably for her benefit. _I don't FEEL like anything bad happened…that actually wasn't too bad…exciting even…This is why I'm in here. I'm crazy._ _Could I have just been dreaming? God I hope not. That's the best I've felt in forever. _She sat up and looked at the window, just leaking dawn's light. Maybe the brightness was what allowed one last picture to infiltrate her mind. She lurched forward as it faded. _A flirtatious, art stealing…scarecrow?!_


	4. Her New Therapist

She waited for the Scarecrow every night for a week; spending the days working in her virtual courses and her free time sketching the few images that came back to her. Since she hadn't actually harmed anyone in the institution, she had privileges like wifi, but ask one wrong question and they would be permanently snatched. So she kept her mouth shut and let her curiosity fester silently. The drawings got stuffed under her mattress in preparation and she fixed her hair at night in case her new friend were to stop by. Her psychosis blanketed the rational fear that should've been there, leaving her intrigued by the possibility of something new.

Finally, an exact week after the first incident, to the hour, Kala's door buzzed. She was sitting at her desk, furiously scribbling at another sketch. The buzz startled her. "Hello?" The door creaked open slightly and she felt a chill make its way down her back. "Hello?" The anticipation did an Olympic quality gymnastic routine in her gut. She stood and brushing the remainders of an eraser off of her lap. The door still didn't open. Frustrated, she approached it, and opened it the rest of the way herself. "Hellooooo?" A shadow passed at the end of the hall. _Dammit. If I leave, I could get caught. If I don't leave, well I'm pretty sure that's my scarecrow, and he might... Dammit. Here goes my perfect record._ With that, she followed the shadow down to the end of the hallway, and through several others, past staff only, card required doors which were already open for her. The halls went from being chilly and sterile, lit only by illuminated red exit signs, to being stuffy, dusty, and hot, filled with spiderwebs. The walls were stone, and barred windows allowed in moonlight. She stopped for a minute to catch her breath, realizing that she had no idea how to get back to her room.

Leaning against the wall, she breathed heavily, sucking in the gas she wasn't aware was being filtered through the toxic filtration. Within a moment, she slide down the wall into a heap in the floor, completely unconscious.

Waking up in a totally different place then you collapsed in, is a little concerning, especially when it's an unknown place that CLEARLY is not a hospital. Her head felt surprisingly clear for having just woken up, and she was able to look around. The room had a soft yellow glow thanks to the multiple small lamps turned on and dispersed throughout the room. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, and were stuffed with dark colored, scholastic looking volumes, like an antique therapist's office. Suddenly, she became aware of her body, lying on a leather psychiatry sofa and groaned, "How much trouble am I in?" She sat up and spotted the desk across the room. A lanky figure hunched over some papers.

He looked up from the papers and smiled, "Oh good, you're awake." He stood and crossed in front of the desk. "And why would you be in any trouble? You did exactly what I wanted you to do." He was very tall, around 6'5", but very skinny. His face was pale, with sharp cheek bones, thin lips, and big, icy blue eyes hidden behind rectangular glasses. His hands, long and bony, brushed back his thick, brown hair, just long enough to not be called short, but too controlled to be called shaggy. After clearing his throat and straightening his tie, he said, "I'm Dr. Crane."

"What happened to my usual therapist?"

"She's fine, but I felt that you need a little more attention than she can give you, which is why I stepped in. I'm afraid we can't visit for very long this weekend, and our visit has to be kept confidential. Your cooperation is essential, but I'll leave it up to you, Kala."

Kala looked him up and down, and spending her time with crazies, he was the best looking thing she'd seen in quite some time, which is why she decided to cooperate with the mysterious therapist, and what allowed the thoughts of the scarecrow to temporarily slip her mind. "Ok, but I have some questions too. Starting with the obvious-"

"Excellent!" He cut her off, dodging the question. "Thank you! I'll waste no time then. So Kala, tell me; what's your relationship like with your parents?"

"HA! WHAT relationship?! Daddy was great when I was little, but once he found out I was a freak, he became disenchanted."

Dr. Crane tried his best to hide a smirk. _Daddy Issues? How cliché? Yet helpful. _"And your mother?"

"She was always a bitch. So I hated her."

"Hate is a strong word." He tested her motive.

"Which is why my choice is fitting." She snapped. She'd passed his test and he was pleased.

"What didn't you like about your mother?" He prodded.

"Everything."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Sure. Let's start with the patronizing, post punishment hugs. Say I misbehaved and got spanked, she would kiss me afterwards and look me in the eye, Judas, and say, 'I did it because I love you.' Yeah right. She totally enjoyed it…I was a chubby kid growing up, well, until a few years ago to be honest. You know how people always talk about the fragile self esteem of preteen girls?"

"Yes."

"Well she didn't care. I would come home crying, having gotten teased or something like that, and what would she do? She'd pat my bulging belly and tell me that maybe I should make myself better instead of giving them the right to tease me. Again with the patronizing, lying through her teeth, for you own good bull."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Now he was lying through HIS teeth. He was glad to know she was used to being tough in opposition.

"Then in middle and high school, she was always on me about cleaning my room, which I did, every weekend. But room's get re-messy during the week and she'd always check it the day before I had intended on cleaning again to make sure she could get me in trouble. I barely had time to clean as I was always in the highest levels of academics I could be, meaning I had an overwhelming amount of daily homework, plus extracurriculars. She thought it was humane to make me cut back on my sleep or the hour of me time I got during the day, to make me clean. I wasn't a robot, I couldn't sleep, eat, go to school, do homework, clean, do it again. I needed an outlet to get out my anger and stress or else I was going to explode, or worse, become a mindless cookie cutter teen conformist."

"Down time IS vital in a person's life."

"Exactly! So when I got in trouble with her, if it wasn't bad enough, she would drag Dad into it knowing that would make it worse. And she would put EVERYTHING off on me when, often, there was equal blame to be shared, or MORE often she was TRYING to get me in trouble. Whenever we argued, I couldn't fight back either. Er, fight is the wrong word. If I'd have fought her, she'd be dead by now. When we'd argue, I couldn't use logic. Believe it or not I'm an analytical thinker, so I thought logic was unbiased and could settle disputes. But no. She couldn't accept her mistakes so she'd yell, and get swingy with the back of her hand which held several diamonds. Then the punishment NEVER fit the 'crime.'"

"That doesn't make sense."

"EXACTLY! For example she would make me cut down on the amount of time I was spending sleeping. A) That's a health thing. And B) Sleep was all I had. It was an escape. I could battle the monsters in my head and decide things for myself and-"

"You're a lucid dreamer, aren't you?"

"I AM! And it's the most amazing thing. I tried to explain it to my parents one time, almost as a peace offering, to justify why I slept so much. But where they intrgued or accepting? No. They called me a freak who was too weak to deal with reality. That I needed to wake up and smell the coffee, etc. That they wanted to have me tested because I CLEARLY was messed up in the head. Messed up was their way of saying nonconformist. They just refused to wrap their brains around me NOT wanting to wear pearls and be a housewife or lawyer or doctor or something socially acceptable and the norm for an over-achiever. Eventually they go over it, but that's because they said I was 'too far gone.' …Anyway, that's how I mentally get out of her at night. I can travel to Paris, or wherever, all in my own head."

Jonathan stopped and considered what she was saying for a moment. It didn't sound like the Kala he'd read about in her file. "Really?"

"Yes sir." She studied the confusion on his face, and became confused herself.

"Do you REALLY go to exotic places in your dreams?"

"I was just giving an example of what I could do."

"But you've never visited the Paris in a dream before, have you?"

She shook her head and continued studying him, "No."

He stood and paced, "You see, I know a thing or two about lucid dreamers. Correct me if I'm wrong, but, because you can control your dreams and are cognitive, you dreams are all about your desires, aren't they?"

Kala was suspicious, "Yes, why?"

He laughed, "Why do I have a feeling seeing Paris isn't on your list of priorities?"

"It was just an example I threw out there."

"So what DO you dream about?"

"If you're not actually my therapist, why is it relevant to you?" Her suspicion raised and she gripped the arms of the leather chair tighter.

"Let me ask again this way; if your dreams were movies, what genre would they be classified in?"

"Foreign horror."

"Why foreign? Do you dream in other languages?-"

"Foreign horror films aren't rated."

"If you had to rate your dreams-"

"X, always, X."

"Why X?"

"Gore."

"Ah," Another test was passed. "So this gore is the result of someone attacking you? You attacking someone? Something else?"

"Listen, I want out of here within a year so I really shouldn't-"

"Shhh," He cooed, "Don't worry about it. I assure you, our charming little talk will be kept entirely off of the books. I'm fascinated by your story, not as another doctor…but as a friend."

"Great, I've been friendzoned by a villainous ex shrink." She grumbled.

"Hm?"

"Nothing." She looked down and pretended to be intrigued by the rug, "You should really vacuum."

"You should really not change the subject." He almost spat. She jumped. He cleared his throat, "I asked you a question, Kala."

"Fine. Sometimes I'm hurting other people and-"

"How? Murder? Torture?-"

"A little of both."

"Anyone specifically?"

"No, not really. Just people like crooks and cheating husbands and such."

"Of course," He nodded, playing along, then took another drink. "That's justified, and commendable."

"Why thank you." She smirked, "I've got a feeling we're going to be friends."


End file.
